


his helping hands

by joeri



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Awkwardness, Blood and Injury, Flirting, M/M, Patching Each Other Up, and you thought Your pair was rare, i tried to tag this with christophes full name and ao3 decided it didnt know who the fuck that was, they fuck offscreen lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 03:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21500860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: christophe has an archbishop to axe.miklan has information.what else do they need?
Relationships: Miklan Anschutz Gautier/Christophe Gaspard
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	his helping hands

**Author's Note:**

> i could write out a heartfelt message here about how i do not excuse miklan's actions in canon as a guy that abused sylvain, and go into great detail about how i only jumped onboard this ship through a modern day au fe3h rp that im in, in which miklan became a better person and apologized to his brother and him and christophe were friends that ended up getting together
> 
> ...buuuuuuut, really. it's easier to just say, don't read if you don't like miklan. you're valid not to. anyways welcome to rarepair hell. the rating is from language, mentions of sex and alcohol.
> 
> my christophe characterization is very much, "this guy is a good guy, fundamentally a soft and kind person but also is completely down to kill the pope and believes in what is essentially a conspiracy theory that insists that she's no good." so he's sorta soft, but he's also a bastard. on a mission.
> 
> [this](https://twitter.com/ashenwolved/status/1222312238054244353) is what my christophe looks like. he's got lonato's white hair and darkish skin and i gave him freckles so that even though him and ashe are not blood related, they have a cool little facial coincidence that they're both stoked about. 
> 
> enjoy the read, if this ends up being your thing.

They both use lances. That’s one thing they have in common. Christophe’s rapt as he watches the bandit leader in all his felonious splendor, tearing a spear up and out of a poor bastard’s chest cavity. It is dark out and the moon is full. Christophe has paused in his speech because, well, he’s not going to try and compete with the sound of some roguish racketeer crunching up bones with every step under his ferric boots. His armor clinks and Chris isn’t sure what to make of it when Miklan digs in his collar before fortuning a crinkled up rag and takes to wiping down the blade.

If what he’s been told about the man are true, it’s hard to think that he’d even care about cleaning up his barbarity. The gesture’s confusing until his voice comes tersely, “this pike’s new.” Christophe ogles it, holding it in some esteem as the other man’s gloved fingers turn the weapon over and polish. The ethic isn’t lost on him. When Christophe peers down at Miklan, he makes sure to crane his neck, not to look down over his nose at him.

“S’it pierce well?”

Stupid question. Miklan’s hardly got eyelids so much as he’s got a pair of heavy set brows that hang like jagged cliff edges over his coffee stain eyes. They flick to him before darting away.

“Fuck d’you mean ‘does it pierce well?’ Do you not see ten men and their mothers on the ground around me?”

Christophe’s got his own lance jabbed into the dirt and he leans against the steel with both hands grasping it gentle, his posture all but lost. Next to this criminal, self-serving Peter Pan and his sorry men, not doling riches out to the poor so much as to their own pockets (which, some could argue is the same,) Christophe could almost seem out of place. His own armor’s less chipped at the edges, a silvery blue in some lights and nigh reflective. Miklan’s garb has been better. What keeps Christophe from resembling something too high and bright for the other man to reach is the devilish smile dancing on his lips all the while.

“No mothers but, you’ve made your point,” he says.

Huffing, Miklan pockets the rag from whence it came, saying, “can you go ahead and make yours? What do you want?”

And the answer is simple enough, but Christophe’s got time. The night’s only just been born and if he’s honest, there’s something enrapturing about seeing the dishonored Gautier in the flesh. Something about hearing all those tales of a miscreant and a cracksman, a monster in broken armor, in tattered furs and a target on his face and picturing something less than human, someone monosyllabic and chaotic—the _stupid_ kind of chaotic, and instead finding someone that resembles a regular ol’ guy.

A regular guy who’s got a canteen of some such on his hip that he steals a swig from while Christophe’s gathering his thoughts. The way he grimaces, Christophe smirks.

“Hooch on the battlefield?”

Miklan pulls a face. “S’not a battlefield, it’s a fuckin’ town. And I ransacked it already.” Christophe’s somewhat enigmatic smile doesn’t wane and then Miklan’s lifting one brow in skepticism. “Eyes off the usquebaugh, unless you got more where it came from.”

Christophe snickers. “Is that an invitation?” _What?_ He’s here to bully some information out of the crook, not get the digits to his home address. Guess he can’t avoid being a whore for ten seconds. This has probably just fucked his chances.

“Could be,” Miklan says, and Christophe’s stomach gets warm and tight.

Wasn’t expecting that reply, especially not with how plainly it falls out. Miklan’s holding eye contact surprisingly well for a guy that seems like he’s not a fan of being looked at, present company included. He’s wiping his mouth with the palm of his glove and doesn’t wince, doesn’t flinch and doesn’t squirm.

Then when Christophe takes his time to reply, goes, “not if you’re this slow to talk.”

“You’re interesting,” Christophe decides, grinning. “I can talk faster over some drinks.”

“Or you could not say anything at all,” grouses Miklan, and Christophe could think momentarily that maybe he’s rejecting the company by the way he languidly gestures outward with his spear, the tip mere inches from Christophe’s face.

But the imagery doesn’t pass Christophe by. Whole body jittering with the laughter, Christophe does his best to hold it in, taking a single step forward and leaning in toward his spear just to say, “I do polish weaponry well.” His breath fogs the steel.

Miklan smiles then, for the first time this night and Christophe can tell right away why there are men that hang on his every word.

“Show me.”

That ugly smicker they give each other, like two thieves in a heist is the second thing they have in common, Christophe supposes.

… 

Christophe’s yanking the canteen off of Miklan’s hip once they’re safe, bodies pinning themselves with fright to this annexed building on the west end of some old warehouse. Or Christophe is pinned successfully, Miklan’s peeling off the wall much like parchment does in flame—curls up on itself and winds and… 

“What the fuck are you doing?” blurts Miklan, acerbic with the pain and unforgiving when Christophe thinks he’s cozy enough to plant each knee on either side of Miklan’s waist like they _know_ one another.

“Hold the hell still,” Chris barks, finding that Miklan ceases to fight once Christophe has torn his underclothes to the side.

His armor lay clattered in a mound surrounding him and he sounds more than vitriolic when Christophe cuts free a stripe of slate gray cotton only to shove it into the wound, staunching the flow of blood. “ _Fuck_ ,” he seethes, body undulating with discomfort underneath Christophe’s ‘healing touch.’ Christophe holds the fabric in place, his fist far enough into Miklan’s stomach now that he could probably hook a finger around a rib. That’s the only way to make it stop.

“This is gonna burn,” Chris says.

“Don’t you fuckin—I _know_ it’s g— _I’m not fucking stupid_!”

Yikes. So much for politeness. Christophe merely wanted to lend a warning before scorching his new-found friend’s belly with burning alcohol. Christophe wastes no time then. He pulls the bloody bit of fabric free and drenches the ugly pink gash in the rest of Miklan’s booze. It stings, Christophe assumes, by the way that Miklan retches and cracks his head back into the cobblestone.

 _Gonna give yourself a fuckin’ headache, idiot_ , Christophe finds himself thinking fondly, watching this grown man hiss and spasm under the pain. No lie, this wound’s not pretty at all, but there’s something gorgeous about seeing such a capable, clever man in such a crumbling state of vulnerability. All Christophe needs from him are the Garreg Mach blueprints and a couple of men. His life is quite invaluable as it stands now, but in truth, Christophe’s still convinced he could go it alone. Miklan could die right now and Christophe couldn’t care less.

…except he does, if only because getting caught out with your armor shrugged off in a dark alleyway was Christophe’s doing entirely. Maybe the guy feels a bit of guilt, write him a stern letter about it if you don’t like it.

“Get the hell off me,” exhales Miklan, seemingly unfettered by the apparent care for his wellbeing, or at least that’s what Christophe thinks before noticing the way he’s lifting not a single fist, blade, or leg to actually shift Christophe away.

Miklan’s eyes are closed, scar rumpled in frustration. He’s wincing beneath Christophe’s palm against his wound, seething as Christophe bunches up the fabric in his undershirt to hold upon it. Miklan’s taking deep breaths. If Christophe didn’t know any better, he’d wonder if the guy was singing songs in his head to tranquilize his temper.

Out of touch with whatever mood Miklan’s trying to set, Christophe laughs and whispers soft, “sorry about all that,” and to that Miklan leans and spits to the side. Some blood caked in his mouth.

Voice hardly above a mutter, Miklan bites, “you fuckin’ owe me,” and Chris laughs more. “Don’t see how that’s so funny.” Christophe folds one hand over the other, keeping the pressure up on the injury and keeping his hands on Miklan. Miklan says, “I have half a mind to think you wanted me dead and I fell for some fuckin’ trap.”

“You’d be dead wrong,” Christophe coos. “Don’t think I’d have known you’d even agree to see me. Didn’t fancy you a mutton monger.”

“Cause I’m _not_ and it’s obvious but…”

Christophe watches cautiously as Miklan’s irises slink away, rolling off of Christophe and into the space behind him, then off into the brick wall once the harsh racket of footsteps disappear. Maybe, if Christophe was crazy he might think that Miklan looks sheepish.

His forehead’s all wrinkled up and he scowls like he’s smelled something bad when he says, “what the fuck else do you want? Just…”

Miklan stutters upward into a sitting position and beats his palm into Christophe’s shoulder. Christophe scuttles backward only enough to let him rise and rub at the wound. Like clockwork, it bleeds through his fingers and Christophe is rolling his eyes. Look at the fucker, like he just can’t take help.

“Was all you wanted sex?” The question comes so earnest, and Christophe’s never been one to lie unless it’s the frilly and fun kind, but luckily he has no need to.

“No,” he says with a snort. “That was going to be the fun part, though.”

“Some fun that was,” Miklan bitches to himself more than to Christophe, some spirit coming back into his shoulders as he shuffles himself against the stony wall. Christophe wants to say that perhaps Miklan seemed… puzzled over something, maybe Christophe’s presence entirely.

Well, now he’s got the man’s undivided attention but he can’t rightly grill him when he’s bleeding all over the place now can he? Christophe lumbers to his feet and replaces his fist against Miklan’s stomach, fastening him to the wall with the motion.

“Let me patch this up.”

Christophe’s white knuckles glow a tad and Miklan blinks back some emotion Chris can’t read as he unravels his tense muscles against the wall. The bleeding stops. Through the tatters remaining in his underclothes, Miklan gauges the damage done to find a lonely scar left over. He runs his fingertips across it and gazes sort of blearily back at Christophe.

“The fuck do you even want?” he asks and Christophe thinks, _a few things._

_I want a re-do. I kinda wanna kiss you stupid against this wall. I need a dead lady. I really need some blueprints too._

Licking his lips, Christophe finds his words, and Miklan laughs them back at him. The moon is full and bright.


End file.
